Disarm
by PitFTW
Summary: On this day, there is nothing else brighter to him than Italy's disarming smile.


Disarm

**Summary: On this day, there is nothing else brighter to him than Italy's disarming smile.**

* * *

><p><em>Paris, France<em>

_November 11th, 1918_

_5:00 AM_

One minute in, he is sitting straight and tall, back against the chair, both feet planted on the ground. He is broken and battered beyond anything he has been before, but still, he is standing tall today. To his right sits his brother, nearly twice as broken as he, lips set in a grim line. The war has been hard on them both, but today, they will only be rewarded with more punishment- he already knows that much.

Two minutes in, he is looking across from him, meeting the cold blue eyes of the French nation, the other man's thin lips not smirking or smiling, but exhausted, weakened. He, too, had been ravaged by war, and every scar, every wound, every bandage is on display. There is nothing to hide; for once in his lifetime, the Frenchman embraces the beauty of battle wounds and scars, to show him, to show his boss, to show the world how much his country had suffered- and to make sure that every word spoken today would be directed to him, the German brat, for daring to mar such beauty with beauty beyond compare.

Three minutes in, the youngest of them is speaking, he who did not join the war until its near end. The voice is boisterous, intense, and filled with promise, not at all the sort of voice one would hear coming fresh from the battlefield. Once again, he cites certain points, fourteen of them, that the countries of Europe must follow, only to have them immediately pushed aside. At this moment, he can only question who or what gave the New World the right to meddle in European affairs.

Four minutes in, they are already arguing amongst themselves, the Frenchman demanding more than he could ever compensate for, and the Englishman arguing for the sake of arguing. The American is attempting to assert himself, but again, no one listens. Already, he is wondering just how much longer before he can take this no more.

Five minutes in, he is twitching, body trembling a little as the fighting goes on and on. Britain and France are locked in deadly combat, despite their injuries. The Frenchman is demanding more submarines decommissioned than the amount his fleet actually holds. The American goes on and on about his heroism and his Fourteen Points. The Briton screams about his hatred for all things french.

Six minutes in, their agreement has yet to be signed.

Seven minutes, he wonders if it was God's plan that he be stuck in a room, humiliated beyond compare, and waiting to be further humiliated by buffoons he knew he should never have lost to.

Eight minutes in, and all he can think about is wishing he could see his little friend, the friend who turned traitor, whose sweet smile gave away to sorrowful frowns when he realized just how cruel the world could become.

Nine minutes in, his brother places one hand on his arm and whispers one word: "Go."

Ten minutes in, he is out of the building, searching, searching, searching.

Eleven minutes in, he is lost. His friend is nowhere to be found.

* * *

><p><em>Paris, France<em>

_November 11th, 1918_

_10:49 AM_

Eleven minutes before and he becomes hyper aware that something in the air has changed. He turns around, looking for a sign, but all he sees are the dull grey of the war-ravaged sky and the bright red of the bleeding heart of France.

Ten minutes before, he has searched all of the west side, but now must move on to the east. He keeps his head held high, searching for a flash of auburn hair, or a brief glimmer of golden brown eyes, or best of all, the beautiful shine of a smile.

Nine minutes before, he is wondering why his little friend did not come to the meeting, like he had promised.

Eight minutes before, he is wondering where he will get the money to pay them. The Frenchman wants a piece, as well as the Englishman, and the Allies all want their revenge.

Seven minutes before, he stands before the Eiffel Tower, wishing that he can pray for a new day.

Six minutes before, he wonders if this was all some horrible dream as he continues to wander the streets of Paris.

Five minutes before, he continues to look, though there is a pain in his chest and his heart that he cannot quite explain. He breaks out into a run, hearing the whispers and voices that come from nowhere, wanting only to escape them. Solace comes only from his one dear friend.

_Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? _

Four minutes before, he is on his knees, unable to run any longer. His injuries are too great, his heart too heavy, and his soul can no longer move. He will be blamed for this war. Alone, of all of his allies, he will pay.

Three minutes before, he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around to look.

Two minutes before, gentle hazelnut meet the the infinite expanse of a clear blue sky.

One minute before, he sees that smile, the smile that disarms him more than any Armistice ever could.

Zero minutes left, the clock strikes the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, upon the eleventh month.

* * *

><p><em>Paris, France<em>

_November 11th, 1918_

_11:00 AM_

One minute after, his arms are around the other, and he is pulling him close.

Two minutes after, he feels the tears prick his eyes.

Three minutes after, there is wetness on his cheeks.

Four minutes after, a thumb reaches up to wipe each droplet away.

Five minutes after, that smile is still there, murmuring promises of pasta and wine.

Six minutes after, there is a handkerchief to his face. His gun clatters to the ground.

Seven minutes after, he wonders where he got that gun in the first place.

Eight minutes after, their lips meet, desperate, passionate, unyielding.

Nine minutes after, they pull apart, flushed pink and breathless.

Ten minutes after, the smile is wider, and more disarming than ever.

Eleven minutes after, he is smiling as well.


End file.
